Beyond the Cherokee Trail. Lisa Carter

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СКАЧАТЬ “Or do you no longer entertain any hopes?”

      Refusing to respond to Leila’s usual jabs, Sarah Jane inspected the clock again, skimmed across the book-lined walls, and then gazed out the parlor window. She fingered the scratchy wool homespun she’d donned this morning. Leila understood full well Sarah Jane’s father, a medical missionary to the North Carolina contingent of the Cherokee Nation, didn’t have the lavish funds the slave-holding planter, Ambrose Hummingbird, had at his disposal for his daughter, Leila.

      She stabbed the needle through the cloth, pondering the unfairness that plagued her life. When God gave out beauty, Sarah Jane figured Leila had not only pushed her way to the front of the line, but probably shoved one or two more—including herself—out of any chance of receiving any beauty at all.

      Leila, she suspected, had befriended her because Sarah Jane was the only white girl within a hundred miles of the Hummingbirds. And Leila Hummingbird, despite being a full-blooded Cherokee, was the “whitest white” Sarah ever met. Whiter than her. With the red brick manor house, the finest silk clothing and finishing school education to prove it.

      A five-dollar Indian, as the more traditional Cherokee referred to Ambrose Hummingbird. And it wasn’t meant as a compliment. He looked like an Indian. But acted like a white man. Neither he nor Leila spoke a word of Cherokee.

      Leila’s father wasn’t much of a churchgoer, and some of the things Leila said were nothing short of shocking. Leila didn’t practice traditional Cherokee beliefs despite Kweti’s best intentions nor evidence much spirituality in the Christian faith of her deceased mother, either.

      Fact was, sad to say, Leila Hummingbird didn’t believe in much of anything. Except herself.

      And bless his dear, always-believe-the-best heart, Papa actually maintained she, Sarah Jane, provided a settling influence on Leila.

      “Humph.” As if anything could contain a force of nature like Leila Hummingbird. One could about as easily harness the wind.

      “What did you say, Sarah Jane?”

      “Nothing.”

      Sarah Jane set her lips in a line as thin as the green stem of the lily and bent her head over her appliqué. What she wouldn’t give to be in her own house. She’d left her journal there, fearing it would fall into Leila’s meddling hands if she brought it with her to Chestnut Hill.

      Not that she’d written anything in it in the month since Papa surprised her with the birthday gift. He knew how she loved to “scribble” and vowed she might miss the rapture if she had her nose in a book at the moment of the Twinkling Eye. The journal, to Sarah Jane’s delight, combined the best of both of her passions.

      Who knows? Someday, somewhere, someone else might read what she hoped would be pearls of wisdom gleaned along the path of her life’s journey. And so, she’d resolved to record only the most momentous of events.

      As if anything of any importance would ever happen among the sleepy Snowbird Mountains.

      Her father contended Leila merely lacked the fruit of self-control—in Sarah Jane’s opinion not the only fruit of the Spirit Leila Hummingbird lacked. Then her conscience—and the voice of her own dead mother—smote Sarah Jane. She closed her eyes, repentant in the face of her self-righteousness.

      “Patience,” she prayed when dealing with Leila Hummingbird.

      Leila tossed a lock of luxuriant hair over her shoulder. “What are you mumbling about?”

      Although Leila’s mother died in the act of bringing Leila into the world, Sarah Jane’s mother only succumbed to pleurisy of the lungs a few years back. And Sarah’s mother had spent as much time on her knees for the motherless, little Cherokee girl as for Sarah Jane.

      For the sake of her dearly departed mother, Sarah Jane held her tongue and held fast to her temper when Leila Hummingbird’s irritating presence drove her out of sheer exasperation to the throne of her Consolation.

      Carriage wheels rattled on the gravel path. She and Leila, for once in total harmony, both flung their ladylike endeavors to the side and rushed for the window overlooking the circular drive.

      Sarah Jane steepled her hands under her chin. “Blessed be God.”

      Leila clapped her hands together, the red and green tartan ribbons bobbing in her hair. “Finally . . .” Her face fell. “Oh. Your father came alone. Wonder where the new doctor is?”

      At the sight of the brown parcel clutched in his hand, Leila squealed and darted on the tips of her patent leather shoes to the entrance hall. She flung open the door before the Hummingbird’s Negro butler, Samson, could grasp the door handle. Sarah Jane followed more sedately—something she’d learned in the two-year Moravian finishing school.

      Glimpsing Sarah, her papa paused on the wide veranda, his whiskered cheeks breaking into a smile. Leila seized the parcel and ripped into the brown paper. He winked at his daughter over Leila’s head. Leila dashed into the house with her prize, eager to escape the biting cold.

      Sarah Jane’s arms encircled his ample girth. “Welcome back, Papa.”

      He kissed the top of her head. “Thought we’d ride home alone together. Give the young doc a chance to catch his breath after the long journey into our mountain wilderness.”

      “And spare him fresh off the boat from New York an untoward encounter with the likes of Leila Hummingbird?”

      He laughed and patted her shoulder. “Remember charity, my Sarah Jane. And, kindness.”

      She rested her cheek against the smooth brocade of his vest. “I speak the truth.”

      “But dost you speak the truth in love?” His words remonstrated, but his eyes twinkled. “Have you no curiosity about the gift I have for you, my daughter?”

      He hugged her close. “A gift of a new laborer unto the harvest of souls in our mountain fold.” He tugged playfully at a strand of her strawberry blonde hair.

      “Is he nice?”

      What she wanted to ask was if he were handsome.

      Her father’s face wreathed into a broad smile. “An interesting travel companion. A worthy sort with whom to while away a winter’s evening. Especially, I think, to a young lady, such as yourself.”

      Anticipation filled Sarah Jane with a certainty that something far better than silk awaited her at home.

      Today might just provide the first entry into her journal . . . An inexplicable feeling arose.

      Sarah Jane put a hand to her throat. Perhaps a milestone along the journey of the rest of her life.

      Chapter 3

      3

      2018—Cartridge Cove

      I don’t see why the tribe hired that white, big-city woman to promote what’s supposed to be a Cherokee event. Why not one of us?”

      Walker yanked open the door of his gunmetal gray F-150 and slid in beside his uncle. Cranking the engine, he slammed the dinging door shut.

      Hawk-faced, СКАЧАТЬ